


Betwixt Two Worlds

by DoctorChimera



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: (sort of), Anal Sex, Body Horror, Cuntboy, Exhibitionism, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Menstruation, Mpreg, Multi, Prostate Milking, Sex Change, Size Difference, Speculum, Tentacles, Vaginal Sex, Xenophilia, phantasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorChimera/pseuds/DoctorChimera
Summary: Update: sequel in the works. COMPLETE. Mother Kos imparts a blessing unto Micolash, setting into motion his bizarre fixation with her, as well as his obsession with the moon. When Laurence gets involved, both of their fates become inextricably twined. Set somewhere between the events of the Fishing Hamlet and the formation of the School of Mensis.
Relationships: Byrgenwerth/Micolash Host of the Nightmare, Laurence the first Vicar/Micolash Host of the Nightmare, Mother Kos/Micolash Host of the Nightmare
Kudos: 23





	1. I. Moonrise

It was the sound of water, gently dripping and lapping against stone, that filled his ears as he came to his senses.

Micolash sat up and assessed his surroundings with keen interest. From what he could tell, he was inside some sort of cavern, possibly subterranean. The air was slightly humid and not very cold. But how did he get here in the first place? The entire space was enclosed in dank rock wall, completely devoid of any exit, save for—

He glanced into the pool beside where he sat. Sparkling with a clarity the likes of which he had never seen before, the dappled lighting it cast on the walls and ceiling appearing to be illuminated from within its depths. The bottom was visible, but there was no way to judge just how deep the body of water actually ran. A fair distance down, a large opening was visible that seemed to lead to a curving tunnel of equally unknown length. Surely not a plausible means of escape for an air-dwelling creature of his size.

Just as he started to ponder his newfound predicament, a flicker of movement caught his eye. From the shadows of the underwater aperture, something was slowly emerging.

And it was quite large, indeed.

The creature, which at first resembled some sort of sea serpent, only appeared more bizarre—not to mention intimidating—as it slowly rose to the surface. Its torso, the scholar could tell, was unmistakably humanoid in shape, even with its disproportionately long and slender neck that ended in a woman's face with eyes obscured by a hood-like cap, from which flowed a cluster of hair-like tentacles. Its arms were long and its smooth chest possessed very little—if any—breast tissue. The rest of its body appeared to be an amalgamation of fish, jellyfish and gastropod, adorned with fins and a graceful display of ruffle-like frills.

This, Micolash realized with awe, was no ordinary sea-dwelling creature. Something clicked in his memory, and he fell to his knees as he immediately recognized it as the Great One that had washed up on the shores of the fishing hamlet some time ago. Only that specimen was a great stinking gelatinous blob, in such an advanced state of decomposition that it was nearly amorphous and unidentifiable. This one was very much alive, with a clearly-define shape that, despite its beastly appearance, was unmistakably feminine.

"Mother Kos!" he cried out reverence—and more than a little trepidation as well—as the Great One breached the surface of the water. She greeted him with an eerie, unearthly whale-like call, fixing her sightless gaze directly upon him. Unsure of how to respond, Micolash simply stared back up at her, mouth agape.

If it really was the same Great One, then how was it possible that she was alive?

A niggling thought tickled at the corner of his mind. Some cryptic tidbit of information that the lecturers had often recited at the university. How did it go again?

Ah, yes, he remembered now: _That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die._

It was when she reached for him that he was instinctively spurred into action, sprawling backwards onto his bottom in sudden mortal terror. He began to scoot away until his back made contact with a rocky wall some distance away—safe from her reach—utterly convinced that he was about to be devoured as penance for what his colleagues had done to her and her child. 

To his horror, the Great One's limbs found purchase on the ledge instead, and with some effort she managed to haul her great body out of the water. Her great belly rippled with peristaltic waves as she crept sluggishly toward him, pulling herself forward with her hands on the ground.

Realizing that there was nowhere to escape to on either land nor water, Micolash simply resigned himself to his fate. Death, at the hands of a Great One, was still considered a highly-coveted death, at least.

Even as every last cell in his body screamed at him to run, he remained motionless as Kos cornered him and reached for him once more. He fought the urge to resist as she gently scooped him up, slowly bringing him to her face, where he was met—not with a hungry, dripping maw large enough to swallow him whole, but with a smiling pair of lips that rewarded him with a cold, wet kiss.

This left the scholar dumbfounded, but relieved, nonetheless. Once he recovered from the shock, he quickly assumed a subservient posture in her cupped palms by clasping his hands together and kneeling, head bowed.

"Oh, Mother Kos!" he praised. "Your boundless mercy warrants my eternal gratitude! Please permit me the honor of serving you!"

The cavern echoed as a joyful croon resounded from the Great One.

"Please, tell me," he implored, "For what purpose do you grace this unworthy one with your ineffable presence?"

Another cold and wet something—which he would soon understand to be tentacle—pressed against his forehead, and he was stricken with an immediate clarity in the form of pure thought: _A gift granted unto you, in exchange for your unfaltering devotion._

Micolash couldn't believe what he was comprehending. To be chosen by a Great One for a blessing—could it really be possible?

So he did the only thing he could do under such circumstances: he prostrated himself before his goddess, accepting her gracious offer. Additionally, he made it clear that he would swear his fealty to her, regardless of being presented with any incentive to do so.

Apparently satisfied with this response, Kos once again brought an appendage to his head in order to impart a command: _Then prepare for the sacred ceremony. Undress._

With little hesitation, the scholar disrobed until he stood before her completely bare, awaiting her next command.

Instead of a single tentacle extending down to make contact with his head however, all of them came forward at once, smothering him until he was completely entangled. He struggled a bit as the cluster lifted him into the air, until a feeling of calm and trust washed over him—Kos' telepathy, perhaps, radiating outward from the appendages and straight into his very being.

They were cold and sticky to the touch. Some of them were still and simply served the purpose of holding him in place, while the others explored him, sliding over and coiling around his limbs, working their way towards his middle.

He could sense her inquisitiveness as her tentacles probed around blindly; the amusement she felt toward his response whenever a ticklish spot was discovered.

The playful mood suddenly turned to a more sensual one, and the aimless groping was soon replaced by slow and deliberate caresses that radiated warmth and affection. 

One appendage swirled inside the cup of his navel before slowly dragging across his lower belly, triggering an intense shiver that went straight to his cock, which, he noticed, was now fully erect.

Unable to conceal such a vulgar display, Micolash's face burned with shame as he stammered an apology. Kos, however, simply responded with another smile. She then lifted a clawed hand and carefully, using the pad of her massive finger, gently teased his genitals. 

Micolash gasped at her touch, squirming as he dribbled with pre-cum.

 _Give me your seed,_ she told him, willing the coils around his thighs to spread them them apart. 

Her intention was more than obvious at this point, but for what purpose? To his knowledge, the only ones who had been chosen to procreate with the Great Ones had been female. But, as Micolash had no womb to be blessed with child, logic dictated that he would be the one to do the siring in this case.

Was this what she meant by a gift? The chance to grant her a surrogate child for the one she had lost?

While the exact nature of the ritual was unclear to him, he had little choice but to surrender to the procedure. Besides, he had already given his assent—and when dealing with Great Ones, one did not simply go back on his word. He was, for the time being, completely hers to do with as she pleased.

But Micolash harbored no such regrets or apprehensions. To the scholar, who was perfectly content to serve as the play-thing of a Great One, the act alone was a blessing in and of itself.

He sighed as one tentacle curled around his shaft and massaged him slowly while another settled on his glans, its tip inverting into a mouth-like orifice that engulfed him with a wet, silky touch. There was a suctioning sensation, coupled with the delightful feeling of something lapping at him, rather like a small tongue.

The pleasure was almost agonizing, and Micolash felt as though he might go mad from it. If not for the tight seal of the "lips" around him, keeping him erect, he was certain he would not last. But Mother Kos was not done with him just yet, and to his surprise he found himself turned and placed in a humiliating position with his ass in the air.

Something cold and slimy came into contact with his anus, and with it came the same sensation of a lips and tongue as it gently lapped him there as well, coating the orifice with a slimy substance. It then reverted to its conical shape and gently stretched his sphincter, steadily easing its way inside.

"No, please! You mustn't!" protested Micolash. "Such a ... a filthy place could never be worthy of your attention!"

 _Your seed ... Give it to me,_ she insisted, and continued to penetrate him. When her tentacle at last found its target—his prostate, he realized—it began to thrust against it.

At the same time, a multitude of mouth-like tentacles started kissing him all over, overwhelming him with a sense of absolute adoration and bliss. Every inch of him was bathed in this divine personal attention—from his scalp to his toes, which were curled in the throes of passion.

The feeling was incredible, but the need for release was so unbearable that he ached. The Great One, sensing this, realized that the critical moment had been reached, and allowed her precious devotee to finish.

Micolash's moans rose to a lupine howl as he climaxed. He fancied that he was literally seeing stars during a queer impression of his soul being hurled through the cosmos at light speed. He tried—and failed—to comprehend the vision as the sheer ecstasy of reaching this new height numbed his brain.

Neither in his life had he produced such copious amounts of semen, for that matter. The approximate quantity would remain a mystery, however, as every last drop had apparently been greedily swallowed up by the tentacle covering his penis, which was wracked with involuntary spasms that continued even after he was finished being milked.

Gently cupping him in one palm, Mother Kos released the exhausted scholar from his bonds and allowed him to recover. As he lie there, spent, panting and uttering feverish praises and words of thanks, she caressed his curly head lovingly with her other hand until a profound drowsiness came over him.

 _You have done well, scholar,_ she told him, without touching his head this time. A perfect telepathic bond, he intuited, had been forged. _But the ritual is not yet complete. Sleep now, and be reborn, closer to the Moon and its secrets than any other man. And remember my name._


	2. II. Zenith

Sunlight crept through the curtains of the dormitory, gently rousing the young scholar awake. As a natural night owl, Micolash had always dreaded the coming of dawn. He glanced at his clock, groaned peevishly, and turned in his bed with his back to the window, not quite ready to start his day.

 _What an odd dream,_ he reflected, trying to piece together the vague images that lingered, phantom-like, in his mind.

He recalled being naked in a humid, dimly-lit, enclosed space, in the company of a large motherly presence. A symbol of time spent in the womb, perhaps? As an orphan deprived of that fundamental mother-child bond in his earliest years of life, such imagery projected from his subconscious did not surprise him in the least.

As he turned it over in his mind, the inevitable urge to urinate forced him out of bed, and he trudged toward the toilet to begin his morning ritual. But upon trying to free himself from his drawers, he realized that something was very wrong.

Raising his nightshirt, he could clearly note the lack of a bulge where one had always been. Placing his hand between his legs only confirmed the absence of his genitals although, peculiarly, the sensation of being touched was more or less unchanged.

With trembling hands, Micolash slid his cottons down to his ankles and sat on the toilet.

 _I'm still dreaming,_ he rationalized as he tried rubbing sleep out of his eyes. _That's all it is._

But when he peered down at himself and saw that the hallucination hadn't faded, he hesitantly placed a hand there to erase all doubts.

A cleft. Dampness.

His hand returned to his face to stifle a scream as his bladder let go, grateful for where he was sitting at the moment. He hastily dried himself off and stood in front of the mirror. No other changes were evident, including the pitch of his voice. He was still exactly the same as he had been the night before, with the exception of his sex organs becoming mysteriously feminized.

The scholar stumbled back to his bed, feeling dazed and unwell. A million questions flooded his head at once, not the least of which being: Should he call in sick and skip today's lectures?

If that were the case, he'd be expected to report to the infirmary, but perhaps someone there might have some answers. There had to be someone in the university who could help him. But how would he even begin to explain himself?

There was still time. Time to think it over. Time for a self-administered exam, as well.

Rummaging through his bedside table drawer, Micolash produced a silver hand mirror. Making sure that his door was locked, he reclined on his bed and took a look at himself. There was no mistaking it—he had seen enough cadavers in his time to be sure—that was a vulva between his legs, just as seamlessly-formed as if it had always been there.

 _But how?_ he inquired. _How in the name of the gods did ...?_

He spread the inner labia apart for a closer look. It was as though his shaft had been scored down the middle ( _like a sausage,_ he thought) and he cringed at the analogy. Suddenly cognizant of their wavy, slightly-frayed edges, the shape reminded him of something. The underside of some invertebrate or another. A slug, perhaps?

_A graceful display of ruffle-like frills._

The scholar loosed a shuddering gasp, and the mirror dropped from his hand as the events of the previous night surged through his mind. Mother Kos. The ritual. The communion. 

_Be reborn, closer to the Moon and its secrets than any other man._

"The Moon ...?" Micolash pondered, considering her words carefully. Then, as if struck by lightning, he brightened with an epiphany.

"The feminine force, _of course!_ Man and woman are closest to Creation—to the Truth—during the co-mingling of the flesh! Therefore, a person with the features of both sexes is a step closer to evolution!"

It all made sense to him now. His encounter with Kos, rather than culminating in the birth of a child Great One, heralded his own rebirth. His baptism under the Moon.

He was Chosen, therefore he was special. If the rest of Byrgenwerth were to discover this ...

What then? Would they revere him, as he so rightfully deserved? That was certainly a possibility. No doubt that tight-ass, Edgar, would seethe for an eternity if he knew.

However, this was _Byrgenwerth_ , after all. In order to prove himself, he would inexorably be subjected to a plethora of tests and examinations. In a strange turn of events, the scholar would now become the specimen instead.

The thought was sobering, indeed. It filled him with a deep dread—and yet he found the thrill of such a scenario to be quite alluring, all the same. A shiver coursed down his spine.

Taking hold of the mirror once again, he settled back into a comfortable position and imagined what it might be like, immediately envisioned himself lying nude on the table of the operating theater, on full display for the group encircling him—students and professors alike.

The jostling crowd would mill about, each one eagerly competing for a glimpse of his peculiar anatomy, regarding him with clinical indifference as they pointed and murmured to one another.

And might there be some familiar faces among that crowd? Master Willem? Professor Damian? Edgar? Roma? Yurie? Even... Laurence?

Gods, how unbearably mortifying!

His feet would be placed in stirrups and the gynaecological exam would commence. A cold pair of hands would part him as he was parted now, revealing the lurid pink of his incongruous sex. And would the hand of another curious soul emerge, meanwhile, unable to resist the tempation to graze a thumb against that velvety little nub at the top?

"Fuck," Micolash hissed through this teeth, squirming as he placed an inquisitive finger on his clitoris. The sensation was highly similar to stroking the head of his cock, only strangely more condensed. He gritted his teeth as he began to rub himself. It was like masturbating for the first time all over again—unsure of how to proceed, he let his body take over, simply doing whatever felt natural as he explored himself. The fact that he was already wet just from remembering what Mother Kos had done to him had only made it easier.

But for now, his thoughts returned to his hypothetical inspection. Perhaps a sensitivity test would be in order? Another hand, this one armed with a lubricated cotton bud, would pull back the skin of his hood and gently tease his tiny prick—prodding and tickling until it stiffened and his lips swelled, glistening with moisture.

The primary examiner would then ease a finger inside of him, performing a typical pelvic exam. And just what, if anything, would they discover while palpating his belly? Would they detect a set of ovaries inside? A uterus? 

Or possibly even...?

Ah, but of course.

"Eyes!" someone would exclaim, and no doubt this excitement would prompt further investigation. A speculum would then be prepared, cold metal sliding into his vagina, dilating him until his inner walls could be throughly scrutinized.

The fantasy began to lose coherency as it melded with the memories of his dream that wasn't a dream, and then it was just him and a sea of hands. Hands on every part of him, grasping and groping... tickling and teasing... fondling and caressing... 

That morning, Micolash enjoyed multiple successive orgasms that were some of the most intense he'd ever experienced in his life (second only to being fucked by a Great One, of course). Once he discovered where his sweet spots were, he decided he'd never trade back his old plumbing for the world.

Now that his initial lust was out of his system, he decided that he'd better wash up and get ready for class after all. As he was doing so, he was seized by a sudden cramp in his lower belly that made him double over while he stood in the shower.

For a moment, panicked welled up inside him when he noticed the rivulets of blood running down the drain. And then, for some reason, he wondered what phase of the moon it had been last night.

Full, of course.

 _Is this ... Could this be... menarche?_ he wondered, eyes glistening with an emotion he couldn't quite explain. He recalled dear Mother Kos' voice again, and his heart swelled: _Closer to the Moon and its secrets than any other man._

But if he could menstruate, then was he also capable of pregnancy? This, and many other questions plagued him as he was finishing his shower, for it bore some potentially dire implications that he had neglected to consider in his sex-addled state of mind.

It was one thing to be at the mercy of his fellow colleagues while they violated his privacy and assaulted his tender body with their greedy hands and cruel instruments. He could tolerate a thing like that.

 _Perhaps even enjoy it,_ a perverse voice whispered from somewhere deep inside, and he shivered because he knew it was true. His new body and sense of purpose made him as proud as a peacock, and it was almost a shame not to show himself off and be showered in attention.

But where would they draw the line? Regardless of whether or not they could find eyes in his external reproductive organs, what would stop them from slicing him open and tampering with his mysterious, delicate inner workings?

His mind wandered to the Fishing Hamlet and the fate of the villagers who were brought back here to be harvested for eyes, via such brutal procedures as vivisection and trepanning. Not even Kos' carcass was spared, and her orphan shared the same fate as the locals. He shook his head.

No, he refused to permit such a thing. At least, not for one such as himself. As far as vivisections went, Micolash had very few—if any—misgivings about observing or even performing them. Progress, as Byrgenwerth frequently inculcated in its students, often demanded such necessary evils in order to take place.

The only difference was that he was now resentful of those who partook in Kos' blasphemous violation. It seemed like such a gratuitous waste, in hindsight. A fruitless endeavor, barbaric and frivolous.

Therefore, as her emmissary (for that was what he now fancied himself) he vowed to protect his blessed vessel from being defiled by the unworthy. From anyone who stood in the way of his destiny—whatever that may be.

He would have to take certain precautions when using the communal restrooms, of course, but aside from that it wouldn't be such a difficult matter to conceal.

However, he felt that he had to share his secret with _someone_ , otherwise he might burst. The only person who came to mind was Laurence.

Yes, good old Laurence. If anyone could be entrusted with a secret, it was him. Perhaps his friend could also help him sort out this puzzle as well. For example, were his menses genuine, or was it a more pressing issue? He thought perhaps that Laurence, with his budding interest in phlebotomy and hematology, would know for certain.

 _Menses..._ he repeated, turning the word over in his head. He rather liked the way it sounded, for some reason. It was from _mensis_ , of course, obviously referring to the month or the moon. Here at Byrgenwerth, Latin was a prerequisite for most of the courses, as it was a fundamental part of the curriculum.

Before he put on his uniform, the scholar stuffed a couple layers of folded washcloth into his underwear (which were now much roomier anyway) in order to staunch the flow, which seemed light and steady enough for now.

Later on, perhaps, he would sneak into the classroom with the various ocean specimens on display, and "borrow" a couple of sea sponges to sterilize and use as tampons.

And so, off he went to report to the dining hall for breakfast. Throughout the day, Micolash seemed unusually light-hearted, tittering more than usual and practically skipping through the halls from one class to the next. His gaeity hadn't escaped the notice of the professors or other students, but none of them paid any mind.

He was Micolash, after all. It was anybody's guess what went on in that eccentric skull of his. A bright and diligent student who often thought outside of the box, the professors appreciated his attentive and inquisitive nature, but most of the students tended to give him a wide berth. He spoke little outside of class, but whenever he did, it was usually to say something bizarre and non-sequitur. He would also often mutter to himself, or lapse into paroxysms of giggling for seemingly no reason at all. 

Most disturbingly of all, he seemed to have a morbid fascination for anything dead or malformed, and showed an unusual amount of enthusiasm whenever either of the topics arose. He once inquired whether it was viable for two specimens to swap heads, and was met with disapproving glances.

He even got in trouble once for performing a vivisection on a rabbit that hadn't been sufficiently chloroformed, gleefully engrossed in its squeals. Ironically, however, he couldn't bear it when anything unfortunate happened to a spider. He would always go out of his way to relocate any that caused a disturbance, sulking mournfully whenever one was squashed in front of him.

One fellow student outright despised him, and that was Edgar. Filled with bitter resentment ever since his foolish rival had been elected class president over him the previous year, Edgar had made it his business to make Micolash's life as miserable as possible.

The only problem was that Micolash was incredibly slow to anger, and, much to his own resentment and humiliation, only ever responded to his bullying attempts by treating them as a clever ruse to win his friendship.

But today there was something about Micolash's unusually carefree attitude that pissed Edgar off more than usual. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that idiotic smile off his face, so he waited in the hallway between lectures for an opportunity to ruin the kinky-haired freak's day.

Before long, Micolash came prancing along, greeting Edgar jovially as he approached. Just as he was about to pass by, however, Micolash tripped over Edgar's outstretched leg. Uttering a vulpine shriek, he tumbled forward with a crash, his armful of books and papers scattered all around him.

"Fuck's sake, Mico-loon, why are you so bloody clumsy?" Edgar sneered in his deep monotone. "Here, let me give you a hand!"

Instead of helping him up, however, the blond bespectacled boy seized him by the hips and yanked his trousers down. Panicking, Micolash scrambled to his knees in a bid to escape, but a swift kick to his bottom sent him sprawling once again. His robe was flipped up over his head with his underwear in full view. People were beginning to stare. Some of them snickered.

Edgar hauled Micolash to his feet and pinned his shoulder to the wall.

"Not laughing now, are you?" he taunted. "What's the matter, Mico-louse? Did you wet your diaper?"

When Edgar's hand moved down to the hem of his drawers, Micolash realized he had only seconds to defuse the situation. Thanks to some quick thinking he was able to regain his composure, countering by exploiting Edgar's weakness.

"If you really want my prick that badly, why don't we go somewhere a little more private first?" he offered with a grin.

The revolted look on Edgar's face sent him into a fit of laughter that was equally from relief as it was from amusement. One that failed to cease even as the other boy punched him in the face and his nose began to ooze blood.

 _"Edgar!"_ a familiar voice boomed down the hall. It was none other than the current class president, Laurence, who had just happened to be strolling around the corner. 

Cursing, Edgar dropped Micolash, who slumped to the floor, still laughing uncontrollably despite the throbbing pain in his head.

Laurence stormed over to the blond and immediately rounded on him in his stern but levelheaded voice: "I don't know what ungodly forced possessed you to engage in such a disgraceful display of juvenile misconduct, but I suggest you make yourself scarce before I inform Provost Willem of this incident!"

"The lunatic had it coming," Edgar muttered before stalking off.

"Well, he just so happens to be my lunatic," Laurence called after him. "And if you ever touch him again, it'll be the cane for you, you hear!?"

"Bravo, Laurence!" Micolash applauded, his tone even more nasal than usual. "You have a real gift for reprimanding the troublemakers, you know that? Keep it up and you'll make a splendid professor one day!"

"You're hurt," Laurence said gravely, kneeling beside the collapsed form of his friend, whose eye had begun to swell. "What happened, anyway? I've never seen Edgar raise a hand to you like that before. You didn't do something to provoke him, did you?"

"Heavens, no! He was simply offended by my display of exuberance, is all," Micolash leaned forward to gather his fallen books, but Laurence stilled him.

"Here," he said, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to his friend. "For your epistaxis." Micolash pressed the cloth to his nose, pinching it shut.

"Indeed, and that's not the _only_ place that's bleeding!" he confessed in a rather jubilant honk, much to Laurence's confused concern.

"What do you mean?" Laurence asked, gripping Micolash by the arms. "Are you all right?"

"I'm better than all right!" he replied, a dreamy haze coming over his expression. He continued in a hushed tone of excitement, "Oh, Laurence, something _wonderful_ has happened to me—you'll never believe it! Come, I must show you at once!"

The two scholars haphazardly gathered up the pile of books and made their way to the dormitories with Micolash in the lead—Laurence shouting at him to pull up his trousers.


	3. III. Eclipse

Laurence was gripped with such a profound sense of incredulity upon seeing Micolash's body that he struggled to follow along as the latter recounted the events of his dream as the two sat in his dormitory (as he, unlike Micolash, had no roommate, both of them agreed it would be more private).

It had been Micolash's intent to save the big reveal for last, of course, but Laurence was so frantic about the aforementioned hemorrhaging that he insisted on addressing that matter first and foremost.

As Micolash stood before him, pants down to his knees with barely an ounce of shame, Laurence's first reaction was that his companion must either be playing an elaborate prank on him—or else had somehow neutured himself in a momentary lapse of sanity.

Neither had turned out to be the case, of course, as he had witnessed for himself. After a cursory examination from which he had no other choice but to conclude that yes, this was in fact a vulva—one from which flowed uterine lining, no less—Laurence nearly collapsed into a nearby chair in shock as he listened to Micolash's explanation for the anatomical impossibility with which he was presented.

Laurence sat in stunned silence for a while, forehead resting on steepled fingers as he attempted to recover from the initial shock and allow his mind to process the inconceivable truth: For whatever purpose, his friend and fellow scholar had been touched by a Great One and would be forever changed by it. There was much to consider here, and his gut told him that he would have to monitor Micolash closely for his own good. The incident with Edgar had been an alarmingly close call.

And so, when he advised Micolash against divulging this to anyone, he was relieved that his suggestion was met with unanimous agreement.

By the following month, however, they would realize that the true horror was yet to come—and that Edgar was the least of their worries.

When Micolash had failed to appear at the lecture hall one evening, Laurence grew concerned. He did his best to pay attention to the droning professor's lesson, telling himself that he'd leave as soon as class was dismissed, but a perfunctory glance at the darkened sky through the window revealed a sight which filled him with a sudden urgency.

The moon was at its fullest tonight.

Come to think, hadn't it been a whole month since Micolash's predicament had begun? Perhaps his cycle had resumed again and he was feeling under the weather. Now that he remembered, the poor lad had looked a little peaky over the past two days. A little more gaunt than usual. And had he merely been imagining it, or did his belly also seem a bit distended, as well? Ah, but perhaps that was only due to his appetite, which had seemed uncharacteristically voracious this week, and—

Laurence calmly excused himself from the lecture hall, then made a mad dash for the dormitories.

When he reached Micolash's room, he was greeted by his roommate, who was standing outside the door, appearing none too pleased. 

"Speak of the devil!" the young man exclaimed, wryly. "He's been calling for you, you know."

"What's happened? Is he all right?"

"He's gone and shut himself up in the bloody bathroom. From the sounds of it, it's been coming out of both ends for at least an hour—"

"Why didn't you come get me!?" Laurence scolded in exasperation.

"I told him you were busy!" the roommate explained. "I even offered to get the campus doctor, but he refused—said all he wanted was you!"

Laurence pushed the door open. He could hear gagging.

"Hey, I wouldn't go in there if I were you," the other boy warned. "It might be contagious."

"Micolash?" Laurence called, ignoring him and crossing over to the bathroom. "I'm here now. Is it all right if I come in?"

 _"Laurrrreeeeennnnce!"_ came the weak, moaning reply from within.

With a shaking hand, Laurence slowly worked the doorhandle. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the interior, he stifled a scream and briskly shut the door, turning back to the roommate, who was still skulking around the doorway.

"Bring me a pail," he demanded.

"You think a little bucket's gonna help at this point? You'll need a whole cleaning crew for that! And what about my bath? My whole night is ruined—"

"You can stay in my room tonight! Just bring me the biggest pail you can find—and be quick about it!"

"Y-yes, President Laurence!" the roommate stammered before taking off without any further argument. Perhaps he had noted the tremor in Laurence's voice, or the glint of terror in his eyes.

He did not re-enter the bathroom until the boy had returned with a large, lidded tin pail and had hastily left for Laurence's dorm with a change of clothes. Laurence locked the door behind him and, bracing himself, went back into the bathroom.

There were dozens of them—perhaps even hundreds of the smallest variety—crawling from wall to wall on every surface (including Micolash). One particularly fat one had tried to squeeze its way underneath the bathroom door as he had waited outside of it, but luckily he had been able to shove it back in with his shoe.

Leeches, he thought they were at first, but upon closer inspection he realized that they were slugs instead. Only, not any species he had ever encountered before in his life. They appeared pearlescent, their colouration ranging from a dull blue to a chalky green.

Laurence tried with all his might to suppress his horror well enough to come to Micolash's aid, but the sight of his friend's condition made his own gorge rise: Micolash, undressed and on his knees in the tub, covered in those squirming gastropods. As Laurence took a deep breath and approached him, two things happened at once—Micolash heaved, a mouthful of bluish slime spewing into the tub; at the same time, a fairly large slug emerged from his vagina from the force of the spasm, dropping between his quivering knees with a sickening squelch.

Laurence began to feel light-headed, but he fought it with all his will.

"Are you all right?" he asked, mouth as dry as cotton. He went to work plucking the horrid creatures off of his friend. They were everywhere, including in his hair. Some even tried venturing back into the nearest orifice they could find.

Micolash managed a weak little chuckle. "I think I'm late," he said, collapsing into a sitting position.

It took Laurence a moment to understand what he meant, but when it finally dawned on him his heart clenched with guilt.

Two weeks prior, the two of them had been studying in his dormitory for an upcoming exam. Micolash had been unusually touchy-feely that day, leaning in close to him whenever they were seated together. Laurence had taken it for just another bout of his playful antics at first, until things had suddenly escalated that evening and the had begun to squirm and fidget in his chair incessantly, unable to maintain focus as Laurence quizzed him on their history questions.

Snapping the heavy volume closed with a thud, Laurence heaved a sigh of exasperation and considered the options. He could send Micolash away to take care of his needs, but where? With his roommate present, and various students scattered about the grounds and public classrooms, it would pose a potential risk if he were to be discovered. 

Hell, there was enough risk as it was under normal circumstances. Anyone caught in the act of committing "self-abuse" would be rewarded with a dozen strokes of the cane. For Byrgenwerth, as Master Willem would remind them, was an institute of learning and productivity where such idle, licentious acts had no place—only little boys and ne'er-do-wells indulged in the solitary vice.

Of course, Master Willem, for all his ancient wisdom, had probably forgotten what it was like to be twenty years old, and how difficult it was to stay on task when one was consumed by carnal desire.

Therefore the safest route, he concluded, was to allow Micolash to relieve his needs here and now. So, while Micolash lay on the bed with his back to him, Laurence sat at the desk on the far side of the room and resumed studying independently.

At least, he tried to. The problem was that it was not a brief affair. Unlike normal men, who could get their business done and over with in minutes, Micolash seemed to be insatiable. He had climaxed at least five times, and was still not satisfied. 

Not only could he smell his arousal, but gods, the noises he made! Between the quiet gasping and the wet _schlick-schlick_ sounds, Laurence found the distraction even worse than before. Before long, much to his embarrassment, he had found himself just as turned on.

Perhaps if he were to lend his expertise, he rationalized, then the situation would de-escalate and both of them would be able to regain their composure.

So when Laurence, face flushed, quietly strode over beside him and stiffly offered his assistance, Micolash obliged with delighted surprise. He swallowed hard and looked the other way as the trembling hand took his own and guided it between the scrawny pair of legs, but the heat... the softness... the sopping wetness... it was maddening. His fingers glided effortlessly into the silken passage, being swallowed up greedily one after the other as Micolash ground against him. It didn't take him long to cum, but to Laurence's dismay, it still wasn't enough.

Micolash begged and begged until Laurence, against his better judgment but pushed over the edge nonetheless, finally relented. Laurence, who tried to maintain a sense of indifference throughout their intercourse, had to admit to himself that it was the best sex he had ever had. Even the way that Micolash sobbed and keened like a coyote was endearing, though it was so loud that he had to force him to bite down on a pillow, lest someone hear.

After the two of them were finally spent—and only after fucking in three different positions—a sobering sense of regret overwhelmed Laurence. He longed to say how he felt. To tell Micolash how exquisite he was... how _majestic_ , but it all felt so wrong and confusing. He had just made love to his best friend—unable to even determine whether it was homosexual in nature or not. But either way, how could things ever be the same again?

When Micolash tried to spoon him tenderly, Laurence pushed him away and sat on the edge of the bed with his back facing the other man.

"Don't touch me," he whispered coldly. "You may have beguiled me, but I am not your lover."

He rose and disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. When he returned, Micolash had gone.


	4. IV. Moonset

"Oh, Micolash!" Laurence cried, throwing his arms around the other scholar and drawing him tightly to his chest. "Forgive me—This is all my fault!"

He had been in _oestrus_ , of course! Why the hell hadn't he realized it sooner? How could they have been so irresponsible? 

But it was irrelevant, he knew. Had it been a normal pregnancy, it would have been much easier to predict and control

( _Terminate_ , he corrected himself with a wince, along with an inexplicable pang in his heart)

but this? This ... ectopic horror? Could such a thing even properly be called a pregnancy? "Infestation" seemed to be a more fitting classification.

"Don't you worry," he assured, breaking away to collect the rest of the slugs. "I'll take care of everything."

When every last one was stored away in the pail (his hands, he realized with distant unease, felt strangely tingly), Laurence set it aside and tended to Micolash, who was shivering and covered in slime. The last of his retching had finally ceased, but to ensure that there would be no further expulsions, Laurence prepared a saline solution for use as a douche as well as an enema. He then drew a warm bath and helped Micolash get washed off. They spoke very little.

With Micolash seen to, Laurence hastily set about the task of removing every last trace of goop from the bathroom. Once it was spotless, he snatched up the bucket and threw on his jacket, preparing to head for the rubbish disposal pit.

"Where are you going with that?" inquired Micolash, who was resting in bed, sipping some hot tea.

"I have to get rid of them," answered Laurence.

"Please, Laurence—"

"We have no choice, Micolash. Surely you must realize that."

"Oh, I know," he nodded in agreement. "Really, I do. But couldn't we save just one of them?"

"Why on earth would you want to keep something like that?"

"Why not? I gave birth to them, didn't I?" he grinned, and when the joke went over Laurence's head, he continued, "For _academic_ purposes, of course."

"You think we ought to study one?" Laurence asked, considering the notion. Unearthly specimens such as these could potentially have unearthly properties. For all he knew, the damn things might just be as divine as Kos herself.

 _Precisely,_ he concurred. _Which is why such a thing would definitely warrant further investigation._

"I'll borrow an enclosure on the way back," Laurence informed Micolash on his way out.

As it turned out, it was much easier to put the slugs inside the pail than it was to get them out—Laurence had to resort to scraping them out with a stick.

As Laurence crouched down to form them into a pile, checking for any stragglers, he noticed one looking directly at him. He could have sworn that the thing—lipless though it was—appeared to actually be _frowning_ ; its expression so hideously mournful that it only served to make him feel worse about what he was about to do, so he plucked it off the ground and into the pail it went.

The moment the struck match made contact with the oil-doused pile, Laurence regretted it immediately. A cacophony of tiny chirping shrieks filled his ears, making his eyes water as his knees gave out from under him. He wanted to run—wanted to scream himself— but could instead only kneel on the ground, transfixed, as he watched them burn.

A plume of turquoise smoke billowed forth from the pyre, and then all was silent. Laurence rose to his feet and saw that the slugs were little more than blackened, shriveled crescents. Satisfied, he turned and headed back toward the campus.

As promised, Laurence assembled a modest habitat for the remaining slug, outfitting its glass enclosure with some twigs and leaves. He decided he'd keep it on Micolash's desk for now, relocating it to his own room after tonight.

While Micolash slept peacefully in his own bed, Laurence's sleep was troubled by nightmares. Although his recollection of them would remain vague until years to come, the images were vivid enough to leave him shaken with a profound sense of dread for the next several days.

He dreamed of rivers of blood, mountains of corpses, armies of horrific monsters, and hordes of people who barely even looked human. He witnessed Yharnam going up in blazes, heard the screaming and howling of men, women, and things unknown. A hunter clad entirely in grey was sprinting through the desolated city, shouting and weeping in helpless despair and indignation.

And then Laurence, too, was on fire. Blazing with a searing, inescapable heat. It was agonizing, with no relief in sight.

From somewhere, he could hear laughing. It was Micolash.

_"That's how it's always been with you, hasn't it, Laurence? Whenever you make a mistake, you simply burn the evidence, thinking it'll absolve you of all responsibility!"_

There were other visions, as well. He saw himself and Micolash, along with a group of other scholars, forming an expedition to venture into the catacombs. When a fellow scholar started shouting excitedly and they all gathered round to partake in her discovery, the two of them exchanged an eerie, knowing glance as soon as they laid eyes on the phantasm in her hands.

In the final vision, Laurence was shown a scene that appeared to be at least a decade into the future. After many failures with experimenting with the umbilical cord they had unearthed on one particular expedition, Laurence was finally able summon a Great One—the key to his successful attempt, it would seem, was using Micolash's menstrual blood as a catalyst.

As the eldritch being descended before the trio, (the third, Gehrman, was a familiar face, though he knew not the significance of the hunter's presence) Micolash was the only one who could communicate with it, therefore he was designated as the mediator.

After several telephatic exchanges took place, Micolash had this to say: "She is willing assist you in your endeavors against the scourge... in exchange for a price, of course."

Laurence stepped forward.

"At this point, hardly anything would be too great a cost. What do you desire?"

 _"A surrogate, for the loss of my child,"_ Micolash imparted. He expression appeared to be dazed, as though in a trance.

Laurence appeared crestfallen. If a Great One had difficulty replacing its child with another of its kind, then what hope did a mere mortal have of taking on the same burden?

 _"Worry not,"_ she responded, as though reading his thoughts. _"A proxy will do in its stead, until such a time as you are capable of fulfilling your end of the bargain. A surrogate of a surrogate, if you will."_

"Another human being?" inquired Laurence.

 _"Precisely,"_ she agreed.

"And... upon what criteria should that decision be based?"

 _"The hunter who slaughtered my son,"_ she stated with a stunning calm, indicating Gehrman with a gesture of Micolash's hand and a rather unsettling grin, _"Would serve as adequate collateral for now... should you choose to accept my offer."_

Somewhere off in the distance, a scourge beast bayed as a pealing of church bells resounded an unholy melody.

**Author's Note:**

> The lore for this story is loosely based on the essay by zephid7, aptly titled K→MP  
> (Or, how a fish monster died and turned into a moon god). It's a fascinating theory, and I definitely recommend taking the time to read it if you have the chance.
> 
> In this story, Kos is not 100% to scale. In the dreamscape, she appears somewhat larger—large enough for a person to sit in her hands, anyway.
> 
> A minor anachronism here, but cotton buds weren't around in Victorian times. However, given the fact that this is based on a work of fiction (and clearly a different universe, at that) I thought I could get away with making an exception—just pretend it's a more rudimentary predecessor to the modern Q-tip or something.


End file.
